


Seeking Our Destruction

by Lightning_Skies



Category: Sherlock (TV), The Sandman (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Pseudo-Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-16
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:40:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lightning_Skies/pseuds/Lightning_Skies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sick of his domain, Destruction left the Endless centuries ago, but his siblings decided to take human form to search him out. Dream and Desire have vastly different plans on how to find their brother and carry their feud into their human lives. Desire is determined to cause as much destruction as possible to draw their brother out and Dream finds himself as the only thing standing in his sister-brother's way. Eternal rivals are just that after all, eternal.</p><p>Unfortunately, Desire worked hir magic again and now Dream has to deal with the feelings of a reawakened heart and keep his beloved human flatmate alive as they all seek out their destruction.</p><p>Fusionverse where the Endless take human form as the Sherlock characters and a clueless John is stuck in the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incest tag is for relationships between Endless who aren't physically related in their human forms. I have no idea if that's considered incest or not, but here's your warning.
> 
> Please Note - Desire is omnigendered and sexless. As the personification of passion, Desire is every possible gender (in an universe that contains more than just humans) and none of the genders all at the same time. Pronouns for Desire will be se and hir (when autocorrect doesn't change it on me)
> 
> This was going to be a gen story, but then Desire got involved and my planned hints at romance cascaded into a major plot point. Oops.

Destruction could have been called the best of them. He was a natural big brother, despite his position as the middle child. He was good natured and stable, effortlessly halting arguments between his strong willed siblings and always bolstering the fragile youngest, Delirium, with constant affection. He was the most genuinely affectionate of the Endless, and his sense of humor was second only to Death's. It understandably came as an incredible shock the day he abandoned his duties and walked out on his family without looking back. The kind hearted anthropomorphic personification of Destruction had grown tired of destroying and wanted nothing more to do with it, or the family connections that came with it. The remaining Endless blamed themselves for making him leave, they blamed him for abandoning them and they blamed each other for driving him away. Without him there to play mediator, the wide chasms of personality conflict widened between the remaining siblings and started tearing their odd little family apart.  
  
That was several hundred years ago. Long centuries without any contact, any message or sign of life from "the Prodigal." Then, in August of 1945, just after the atomic bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, their middle sister Despair suddenly declared that she could feel faint echoes of Destruction's emotional pain and left to find him. They hadn't heard anything since, from either of their missing siblings. While the absence of one of the eternal seven was distressing, missing two was disastrous.  
  
That was just about 65 years ago. Delirium, having been dangerously unstable since Destruction's abandonment had taken Despair's disappearance harder than the rest and was on the verge of a complete collapse. Death and Destiny were quiet, having felt that they somehow failed their small dysfunctional family. Destiny believed he should have seen it all coming and could be found scouring the many pages of his book more thoroughly than ever before. Death wished she'd been there with a listening ear when they obviously needed her and became unbearably intent on checking in with her remaining brood near constantly, pestering them to speak with her about their feelings. Even Desire was more intolerable than usual, hir usually immaculate appearance suffering as se showed uncharacteristic distress at the loss of hir twin and elder brother. Dream, himself, was surprised at the exaggerated degree of pain he felt over the fact that his siblings didn't seem to care enough to stay, or even contact them; across the world humanity dreamt of abandonment and many a pillow was soaked in lonely tears.  
  
Things couldn't continue like this, all of their aspects were suffering neglect from their many decades of distraction. Something had to be done. So, it was discussed and argued and eventually decided between them that they would search Earth. Death felt it was Destruction's most likely hideout, due to his concern over humanity's tendency towards self-destruction. He wanted nothing to do with having a hand in their inevitable annihilation, but his caring nature would render him unable to just walk away. He was self-sacrificing enough that he would stay close and force himself to stand watch over the end of humanity. Delirium had declared, with a bit of crazed mumble deciphering on Destiny's part, that England was the most likely place to find Despair, since it rained so very much all the time. With no other leads, the others agreed that they would start their search in London.  
  
Even the ever dissonant Desire had quickly agreed to lend hir strength to the massive pooling of raw primal power that would be required to allowed the Endless to assume human form and nature. Se would work with hir siblings for as long as it took to find their errant siblings, but se had stridently disagreed to the methods of searching. Their sister-brother believed that Destruction would be drawn to a large enough invocation of his aspect and had proposed that they start a war or spark off a particularly virulent terrorist group. Dream had contradicted hir, citing the fact that Destruction had left in order to escape culpability for humanity's headlong rush towards mutually assured destruction. He would obviously avoid any and all such incidents of devastation, or they would have found him an age ago. Destiny and Death had taken his side and Delirium was in no way capable of making an informed decision either way, having used up her one remaining shred of relatively straight forward thought to suggest a starting location.  
  
While they had shaped their human identities, Desire had grudgingly dropped the topic and Dream had thought for one blissful moment that se had seen reason and was not intent on causing as much carnage as possible in the hopes of summoning their absentee kin. Standing here, in a darkened pool after hours and seeing that highly familiar, demented and self satisfied grin on the face of a criminal consultant and terrorist bomber of at least 12 people, recognizing his sibling even behind the guise of Jim Moriarty, Dream (now Sherlock) remembered, with no small amount of exasperation, that Desire was in no way known for operating under any form of reason or logic, preferring to let passion and instinct guide hir.  
  
It was a shame really. There had been a small part of him that had wished for Moriarty to be Destruction. It would have been so elegant to have chased down the criminal mastermind step by step and reveal that the two men he was chasing were one in the same. It seemed even the king and god of The Dreaming was prone to the occasional unproductive daydream. As always, Desire hadn't given up, se had merely changed hir game. Moriarty was shaping up to be a great threat to all of London exactly as Desire had planned, and the only thing standing in the way of his escalation was Sherlock. Dream and Desire were at odds once again.  
  
"If you don't stop prying. I will burn you. I will burn the _heart_ out of you." Moriarty's dark brown eyes seemed blackened with the shadows he stood in. He knew, just as Sherlock did, that taking on the form and nature of mortals lessened their natural protections and made them just as susceptible to each other's power as any mundane human. It was a risk they had all taken in order to achieve their common goal, but it seemed that Desire's fickle and self-serving nature had been passed into this mortal incarnation and Jim Moriarty was abandoning their accord.  
  
"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."  
  
"But we both know that's not quite true." The thought of a long dead mortal lover held in the embrace of a distant star crossed Sherlock's mind, reminding him of the true start of their feud, long before the progenitors of Carl Powers' species had even been spawned. The aeons old betrayal orchestrated by his cruel sibling that had led to him abandoning his heart. Moriarty's quicksilver smile at the reflexive tightening of his hands around John's gun was cutting. Desire had always known exactly how to cause him the most pain, as well se should, se was the cause of most of it. "Well. I'd better be off. It was so nice to have had a proper chat."  
  
"What if I was to shoot you now? Right now." Anger washed over Sherlock, ancient festering bitterness based on the memory of flawless blue skin and green fire. There was a low burn of the constant, familiar rage that Desire would still be so selfish as to endanger any hope they had of finding Destruction just to be stubborn yet again. A new inferno of fury overlay it all, fury that Moriarty would draw John into this mess that was far larger than a simple army doctor could ever comprehend.  
  
"Then you could cherish the look of surprise on my face. 'Cause I'd be surprised, Sherlock, really I would, and just a teensy bit… disappointed." Desire always had known him too well. As long as there was even a sliver of chance that Moriarty's antics could draw out their brother, Sherlock wouldn't shoot and they both knew it. He also found himself strangely reluctant to risk John's brief insignificant little life and the equally inconsequential form of Sherlock. His eyes widened in horrified realization and Moriarty winked at him. He had been manipulated again, and now losing John was no longer an acceptable loss. Desire had once again given him something precious with the full intent to tear it away and leave him bleeding. "And of course you wouldn't be able to cherish it for very long. Ciao, ' _Sherlock Holmes_ '."  
  
"Catch… you… later." Despite the knowledge that he wouldn't shoot, Sherlock couldn't help but track Moriarty's movements with his gun as he brushed past John and meandered out the side door. It was rather appropriately labelled Women's Locker. If his act as 'Jim from IT' was any indication, Moriarty's gender and sexual identity were as fluid as Desire's always had been. It seemed that, even as humans, many of their personal quirks shone through. Sherlock wondered what that said about him.  
  
"No you won't!" Sherlock took a moment to gather himself as the sickly sweet scent of summer peaches faded. The adrenaline of the night was still coursing through his bloodstream (he would never get used to that sensation) and his mind was focused and sharp.  
  
John was watching him quietly. Steady, loyal John, with his addiction to danger, pragmatic willingness to kill and fondness for tea and a warm broken-in jumper. In Dream's long life he had never met someone so eminently normal but at the same time full of hidden depth and intriguing broken bits. He was an addiction. How had Sherlock ever lived without him… and if he continued this game with Moriarty, how likely was he to be forced to live without him in the future? Humans were so short-lived and transient. John and Sherlock could live to a grand 'old age' and still be dust in a relative eye blink in the perspective of the Endless. His sister would claim John all too quickly and there would be nothing he could do to convince her otherwise. Every moment was important, because inevitably, be it Death or Desire, one of his siblings would be taking John from him far too soon.  
  
"Alright? Are you alright?" It was suddenly intolerable to see John standing there bearing the wired weight of his own death around his shoulders, constructed by Desire's cruel plans. John belonged to Sherlock. He belonged to Dream of the Endless, and Sherlock swore by all the power of The Dreaming that John would live as long as humanly possible. He would do everything he could to forestall his siblings taking him away.  
  
He quickly stripped the explosives laced parka off of John and threw the latest in bomb fashion as far as his human strength allowed… which was a dismally small distance. He didn't want anything Desire had touched anywhere near John. The relief he felt was nearly palpable. It drown out his smoldering anger towards Desire and even his near constant melancholy about Destruction's absence. The emotions John inspired were paramount to everything. Desire had plied hir trade perfectly and Sherlock was completely ensnared. Everything had gone wrong, but all he could think was that while he may lose his doctor eventually, it wouldn't be tonight.  
  
"Well, I'm glad no one saw that."  
  
"Hmm?" These rediscovered emotions really were distracting, he'd have to work on that.  
  
"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."  
  
"People do little else." As the adrenaline drained out of him, he shared a goofy smile with John. His wonderful blogger had gotten caught in the middle of two feuding primal forces of the universe and had not only come out unscathed, but was still making jokes. He really was a delightful human.  
  
A wonderful human with a sniper's mark on his chest.  
  
Sherlock felt his newfound heart freeze in his chest. Se wouldn't. Not so soon. If there was a god that might listen to his prayers, Dream would have fallen to his knees right there. This couldn't happen now, before he even had a chance to tell John how important he was.  
  
"Sorry boys. I'm SO changeable. It is a weakness with me, but to be perfectly honest, it is my only weakness." Sherlock made eye contact with John, trying with all the inability in his human meat and bone to telepathically tell his flatmate everything he needed to say. The warmth in his chest bloomed anew when he read understanding and agreement in John's grey-blue eyes.  
  
"You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you, but everything I have to say has already crossed your mind." They'd long since dug in with their respective opinions, before they were even born. There was nothing Desire hadn't already tried to convince or coerce Dream into agreeing with hir. So, it seemed his sister-brother was instead going to remove the obstacle he represented, permanently. Sherlock Holmes would die and Dream could no longer be with John or search Earth for his brother. It was the ultimate endgame.  
  
"Probably my answer has crossed yours." Sherlock would far rather be the one to take John's life than allow Desire to get hir claws into him.  
  
For a brief moment, after he had pulled the trigger and before the world exploded in red and yellow fiery shards of buffeting pain, everything stopped and the godlike creature bottled up in Sherlock's carefully constructed human body was able to feel something that he hadn't sensed in several hundred years. The air grew thick with the iron tang of ancient blood and heavy with ozone and he had the phantom sensation of a familiar set of powerful arms wrapping around him, enshrouding him with the comfortingly overwhelming presence of his younger brother. In that moment, Sherlock and Jim were briefly stripped away and Dream's inhuman, star filled eyes met the tawny, yellow-wine irises of Desire over the detonating explosives and they both reveled in the knowledge that although they couldn't see him, Destruction was there with them, in that abandoned pool. He never had liked it when they fought.  
  
Then the moment was over because John was tackling Sherlock sideways into the pool, high velocity shards of tile were cutting into their flesh while fire and smoke enveloped them and they were staining what small amount of water hadn't been blasted out of the pool red with their blood while the ceiling collapsed on them. Destruction indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't change much of the scene, because they're really kinda already the perfect Desire/Dream without much interference. Next chapter and on are going to be completely AU to canon.
> 
> Sorry if the Dream/Sherlock and Desire/Moriarty thing confused anyone. I tried to identify who was thinking what. Sherlock is a subset of Dream, so when he thinks of things that are bigger than humanity, he's doing so as Dream, not as Sherlock. 
> 
> Also, Desire is se, but Moriarty is he, since he has a set physical gender. Mentally he is still fluidly gendered but I wanted to differentiate between Desire and Moriarty, so he will be considered male. I even confused myself with that one, which is actually kinda appropriate. Think of it like being in a play where your character is based on you but isn't everything you are.
> 
> If you don't know about Desire setting up and then ruining Dream's relationship with Killalla of the Glow, sparking off the Dream/Desire feud ages before humanity existed, read "Endless Nights"


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People seem to be having fun speculating on who is who for the Endless/Sherlock match-ups. I'm not going to be answering any of your questions about it though, you'll just have to see as the story evolves. They're all pretty obvious, so I don't think anyone who is familiar with the Sandman stories and Sherlock characters will be surprised.

Sherlock hated hospitals. He always had, the word 'always' having quite the longer connotation when he used it than it did for any other person who might consider themselves worldly and experienced enough for the full weight of it. Hospitals were loathsome places, teeming with abandoned dreams and nightmares, he was positively suffocating in the assorted emotional flotsam and jetsam roiling about. The patients and loved ones that would never recover tended towards dumping the shattered pieces of their bright shiny futures haphazardly wherever they fell and those who got good news weren't any better. They walked away from what-if nightmares that they had carefully cultivated and nurtured for _hoursdaysweeks_ waiting for test results, diagnoses and treatment plans. People spent relative eons exhaustively shaping the ever more elaborate horrors of imagined worst case scenarios and then never wasted another thought on their once cherished and now cruelly deserted creations once the reality, for good or ill, was revealed.   
  
Dreams of every shade and size flitted about, never to be retrieved and brought home by the people that had spawned them, psychic refuse left behind by the human race. Every single one of those _fearhopedelusionhallucinations_ threatened to engulf him and force it's existence upon him. They could feel the traces of his true form and flocked to their liege in droves, pooling around and rapidly building up as he was forced to sit here. Sherlock could feel them as an oily, clinging smoke winding it's way around him, scratching and prowling at the edges of his mind like bugs drawn to a light or a desperate stray seeking entrance. It was highly distracting and made his brain itch. He hated it. He could not afford the time to be dragged into an everwaking dream, and had no interest in being put on anti-psychotics again. He was just about able to keep the visions at bay, but since he was currently nothing but a human he couldn't wield the full force of his proper position to command them and drive them away.   
  
Speaking of things he couldn't seem to drive away. "I've told you twice now, Mycroft, a third reiteration will not improve your apparently failing hearing. Our brother was there, at the pool, in the moment before the explosion. I could feel his power through every dull sense this horridly limiting meatcage of mine possesses as well as several it doesn't. Ask Desire, se felt him too."  
  
Mycroft watched him serenely from his chair beside Sherlock's frankly unnecessary hospital bed, hands braced casually on his umbrella. His eldest brother somehow managed to make the lurid orange, scooped plastic seat appear to be the height of comfort. Meanwhile, he had been forced into a backless faded blue hospital johnny that had the misfortune to have been run through the starch press at least twice too many times judging by the way it scratched at his explosion abraded skin. "Ah, yes. Moriarty. Your new arch-nemesis. Convenient that he should be one of us."   
  
Sherlock snorted in derision. "Don't be obtuse. The whole reason we took these forms is because like is drawn to like and we knew we'd unconsciously gravitate towards one another. Of course, you haven't bothered doing your part to find the others, all you do is sit around increasing your mass so that we have to come to you. You should have just stayed in your Garden, for all the use you are."  
  
"Really, Sherlock." Mycroft pinned him with that look he often gave, the one specifically for Sherlock, that attempted to both condescend and reprimand at the same time. It was a carefully calculated look of manipulative disappointment designed to abrade his contrary nature and cause him to react in a Mycroft approved manner. Fortunately for Sherlock, he had never been capable of responding properly to attempted guilt trips and had always felt that the look just made his brother look rather like he had both heartburn and the desperate urge to sneeze. "As insults go, that was rather sub par. Your imagination seems to be suffering in your absence from your own immaterial realm."  
  
"I thought it was rather inspired."  
  
"If I were a more childish man, I might respond about increased mass equalling increased attraction, but I'm not willing to stoop to your level. Besides- you are obfuscating. There's something you're not telling me. I will figure it out eventually. However, due to the excitement of the morning thus far, I'd say it would be in your better interest to save us both the time and simply tell me."  
  
Sherlock's face twisted up into a childish scowl as his clear blue eyes glared at the infuriatingly pansophical elder brother he couldn't ever seem to get away from, even with another face and life. Mycroft simply stared back, Destiny's blind sight peering through his seeing eyes and reading him like he was just another page in that damnable book of his. Sherlock looked away as he gave in, recognizing that now was not the time for this. He wanted the conversation over and Mycroft gone, he had things to do. Still, the words felt like they tore strips out of his insides as he dragged them to light. "We shouldn't have survived. I've done some quick calculations.  Judging by the supply of semtex and factoring in the close quarters and somewhat less than optimal detonation technique, there was enough explosive force released that it should have near totally dismembered us and leveled the pool's housing structure. Destruction's intervention is the only reason we weren't reduced to our component parts. I may never forgive him for leaving us, but he saved my John and this face that John knows and for that… I will be eternally grateful."  
  
"'Your' John?" Mycroft's dissecting focus skittered over his skin like a colony of fire ants, prickling at both his skin and pride. He could feel the frown aimed his way, but steadfastly ignored his brother, studying the wall intently. "It seems our sister-brother has been playing hir games again. I'm unsure who deserves more commiseration, yourself or the good Doctor. You, more than all of us, should know how dangerous it is to love a mortal."  
  
He whipped his head around to pierce Mycroft with the full pressure of the Dream King's potent glare. "I am more than aware of the consequences, and I will take Desire apart for hir interference," His voice softened in a way that no one had ever heard in this lifetime. "…but that will not stop me from taking what time I can to be Sherlock Holmes, a simple consulting detective in love with his flatmate."  
  
"You never were one for half measures." Mycroft sighed in his most put-upon manner and twirled his umbrella around on it's finial point, rolling the handle back and forth between his fingers. "There will never be anything simple about you brother and I need not consult my book to tell you this will end badly."  
  
"Yes, yes. Mycroft-the-all-knowing. Thank you for that delightful pearl of wisdom. How ever would I survive without your eminent guidance and all-important fixation on that ridiculous tactile substitute you carry around?"  
  
There was a hint of amusement in Mycroft's eyes as his eyebrow raised sardonically. Dream and Destiny were probably the least emotionally comfortable of all the Endless, and as a result bluster and sarcastic wit often carried the day between the Holmes brothers when sentiment grew a bit too much. Sherlock thanked whatever deity was within hearing distance that Death had yet to make an appearance. She would likely smother them both with overabundant amounts of empathy and understanding. "Most people simply call it an umbrella, Sherlock."  
  
"I think you'll find that I am not most people. It's a security blanket and you know it. An eternity of being chained to that moldering tome and when you're finally free of it you have anxiety attacks about not carrying something around. The world will not end if your hands are empty for more than a moment at a time, Mycroft. The fidgeting and obsessive compulsions of 'minor government officials' are just not that important in the grand scheme of things."  
  
"A minor government official is all it takes to make or break civilization as humanity knows it, little dreamer." Sherlock flinched at the endearment, he hated it when Mycroft was in an indulgently illustrative mood. "One tiny cog can halt the entire system or ensure that it continues flawlessly… but you have side tracked me. We were discussing your doctor."  
  
Sherlock quietly damned him for being persistent. "Were, yes. Are, no."  
  
"Don't try to play that game with me, I was the one who taught it to you. Since you have always been such a model of the cooperative patient, they'll have refused to tell you how he is fairing, I suspect. Holding the information hostage against your good behavior. I imagine you are itching to investigate and it is the reason you are so desperate to get rid of me."  
  
"One of many reasons. Not that I have ever needed an excuse to wish you away from me."  
  
"He's alive."  
  
"Yes, I had concluded that, what with the complete lack of haste or sympathetic grief on the part of the paramedics."  
  
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they caught the tension in Mycroft's shoulders as he visibly braced himself for his next words. "He has yet to wake and appears to have lapsed into a coma, Sherlock."  
  
He scoffed at his brother, even as a sinking feeling made itself at home like a brick weight in his stomach. "Coma from the Greek _koma_ , meaning deep sleep. Oh, how I wish I knew someone who was an expert on sleep and dreaming, they would be deucedly useful right about now."  
  
"It is not that easy and you know it. This is not simply a little knock on the head, Sherlock. He has suffered a cerebral contusion, a severe traumatic brain injury, and has been unconscious and barely responsive for several hours. You forget that he is human. He is reliant on his body to function. You may be capable of ignoring a Grade II concussion, but he will not walk away from this so easily."  
  
"Take me to him."  
  
"Sherlock..."  
  
"As you have just stated, I am perfectly capable of ignoring a simple concussion, and I categorically refuse to properly convalesce until I have seen him."  
  
They faced off like that for a moment, the shadow king resplendent on his borrowed throne of utility plastic and the 6 foot petulant child refusing to go to sleep before he got his favorite 'teddy bear' back. In the end, Mycroft sighed and lifted an elegant shopping bag containing a pre-prepared emergency replacement of Sherlock's clothing onto the bed. He stood just outside the door while his brother hurriedly dressed himself and brushed past him to set off down the hall without so much as a by your leave, only to turn and glare when he refused to abandon his typically sedate stride. It was these small power plays that kept them both amused, albeit only one or the other at a single time."Well, I suppose that despite my best efforts it was inevitable-"  
  
"Don't use that word. I hate it when you use that word. You invalidate everything whenever you say that." Sherlock made up for their ridiculously slow progress by pacing forward and doubling back each time he got too far ahead and reached another hall crossing where he didn't know how to proceed. Mycroft privately imagined he was attached to one of those dreadful elastic leashes exasperated parents harnessed their more overactive offspring into to prevent them running off. He must have given some hint to his amusing thoughts, because the next time he turned around, Sherlock glared at him.   
  
"I had no idea my vocabulary so concerned you. Should I also keep my silence on the fact that your pairing with John Watson bears all the markings of something that was 'meant to be'? Even before Desire interfered, you were too close, too fast. One might think you were made for each other." He waited until Sherlock had started off again, stalking quickly down the hall on his next circuit, before turning and stepping into the private hospital room on his left.  
  
Sherlock quickly appeared at his elbow, not having gotten far before he realized Mycroft's evenly measured footsteps hadn't followed him. "I don't want to hear it. Destined romances always end tragically."  
  
"Perhaps that should tell you something, brother. The light that burns brightest and all that."  
  
Sherlock stepped forward and ran his fingers through military regulation length silver and blond strands. "… and yet, somehow, John would be entirely worth it."  
  
"Stubborn to the end."  
  
Sherlock ignored the tap of the umbrella and click of the door as his brother retreated. His focus was entirely consumed with the vision of John laying small and still against pale sheets. Scanning the room briefly, he dragged the only chair right up against John's bed and folded himself into it. He wrapped one too limp hand in his own, his long bony fingers dwarfing their shorter fleshy counterparts, violin and gun calluses notching together perfectly like the teeth of a zipper. Taking a deep breath, he let go of Sherlock. It was Dream of the Endless that intertwined their fingers, lay his physical head on the bed beside John's hip and pushed himself out and up, using their physical connection to help guide a mental one as he sank into John's dreams.


	3. Chapter 3

Death hung back in the hallway and waited for the paramedics to wheel the body into the morgue and make their way back to the ambulance. Finally, she was alone and she quickly unzipped the bag to stare down at the slack face of one of her most exasperating siblings with mild annoyance. He looked ridiculously relaxed laying there as limp as possible in his body bag, without a care in the world. She could see the suppressed rise and fall of his chest and was leaning close enough that she could feel the slight breeze as he took shallow breaths, playing dead. He must have had one or all of the emergency personnel under his thumb, to get himself legally declared dead and removed from the awaiting custody of the Yard. It was brilliant in a simple way, or would have been if he had gotten away without anyone noticing. Vanishing dead bodies was practically an arch-villain bad guy trope. They always come back. They didn't- she should know, but they faked it often enough in Hollywood.

"Wake up sister-brother. I know you aren't dead. It's rather a specialty of mine to know these things. Not to mention that I'd be pretty crap at my day job if I couldn't tell a daisy pusher when I saw one." She reached out and slapped lightly against his cool stubbly cheek. No reaction. "I'm not here to turn you in. I just thought you would want to know that you're scheduled for autopsy in about ten minutes, and Sherlock wasn't injured enough to stay away for much longer either. No matter what your kinks are, I doubt you'll enjoy a y-incision and rib saw or Dream's revenge while you're stuck in a delicate mortal body."

At that, Jim didn't bother pretending anymore and his dark eyes popped open as he stared up at her in fascinated horror. "You…"

"Morning, Jimmy!" Molly chirped brightly as his eyes darted this way and that over her pink clad human form in shock. She, more than her siblings understood what it was to be human. She was able to experience one day every hundred years as a human and over the ages had tried out every walk of life. As a result she was capable of creating a persona that looked and acted nothing like her true self. Dream regularly looked her in the eyes, several times a week, deducing inane things about her life and yet never really saw her. So much for Sherlock's vaunted observational skills.

"How…" While he was in the midst of smoothly seducing her human persona, Death had wondered if Jim was Moriarty and if Moriarty was Desire; now she had her confirmation. It seemed that he hadn't even considered that she might be more than she seemed. What a delight to have been able to fool him and Sherlock both, she had enjoyed every time they visibly wrote her off as nothing but a sad, lonely little mouse.

"Well, when a mummy and a daddy really love each other, and an anthropomorphic personification wants a human form…" She trailed off as Jim sat up suddenly, forcing her to step back or get head butted. He unzipped his legs and threw the body bag on the floor as he began methodologically checked himself over. After all, the 'dead' don't tend to be given the benefit of first aid for their injuries and he had just been blown up by his own explosives. He was in amazingly good condition, all things considered. She grabbed a wetted paper towel from the morgue sink and, grabbing his chin firmly, wiped the ash and dirt off of his face. 

"Does Sherlock know?" His face twisted up, either at her mothering or at the thought that Dream might have one up on him in anything. Especially something that had been just under his nose the whole time he was playing 'Jim from IT'.

"Nope. That's the fun of it, I've been teasing him constantly with my 'unattainable crush.' I wasn't even really hiding myself much. A cheerful, upbeat young woman who is completely surrounded by death and the dead at all times of the day without any visible stress… it really shouldn't have been that much of a stretch to make the association. You weren't the only one hiding in plain sight, and even suspicious Jimmy Moriarty never gave me a second thought."

"You knew who I was?" Jim stared at her incredulously, still a little thrown that his plans had been interrupted and reeling from the knowledge of who had thwarted him. Here he was, a master manipulator and he finds out that he'd been humored by his mark the entire time. Desire may have been more or less evenly matched with Dream, but here was a reminder that although much less noisy about it, their elder sister was still far out of their league. "And you never said anything? Never did anything?"

She tilted her head and regarded him with complete seriousness, the weight of the Far Shores in her expression. "Should I have? The moment we took these forms, we were woven into the warp of life and weft of death. All of those you've killed have been out of time, they weren't supposed to live any longer. You aren't negatively affecting the balance, so I won't stop you. I'm not on Earth to stop your little campaign, I'm here to find our brother. Besides, if you'll remember, I was the one who invited you to come meet Sherlock, wasn't I. He's the one dead set on catching you. I was helpful and did my part to get you in a room together, which you both wanted. It's not my fault he was too focused on Moriarty to notice either Jim or Desire."

"Yes, he was rather short sighted about it all." Jim's eyes lit up with excitement. "Oh, you should have seen it sister. It was beautiful. Not only was I able to show Sherlock exactly how many steps ahead of him I am, but I was able to draw out big brother. Destruction was there! He came to me. My plans worked and Dream knows it. He came not for dusty old Morpheus but for ME." He was riding the high of being a step ahead in his little game with the consulting detective, but more importantly, he was proving himself better than that stick in the mud Dreamer as well. It would burn him up for eons if Desire were the one to get their brother back. This was so much more satisfying than the thought of abusing the detective's little lame dog. His greater purpose was being fulfilled and it was glorious.

"It seems that we're finally gathering together. Dream, Destiny, Death, Desire and Destruction, together again. I have my suspicions about Delirium. Have you heard anything from your twin?"

"No." Jim pouted as he pulled at his shredded Westwood suit. It was scorched and ruined, but he was only superficially injured underneath. He made a face when she handed him a clean set of scrubs. Mint green was not a color she thought she'd ever seen Desire wear. "You've seen Destiny?"

"Sherlock has an older brother, Mycroft…"

"The government grunt?"

"It's mostly a cover for pulling the strings to everything behind the scenes. He likes to keep a low profile." 

Jim nodded, if Mycroft was truly Destiny it would make sense for him to be a quietly omniscient character, manipulating from the shadows. He quickly stripped and changed into the scrubs. Desire was incapable of body modesty after all, and Jim's plan of seducing his way into Barts had included sex with this blushing morgue attendant who turned out to be his sister. He frowned to himself. Desire had always wondered if Death was any good in bed, or if she was the cold fish type. It was upsetting that se'd finally had a chance to find out and hadn't been paying much attention at the time. When he finished, he turned to Molly suspiciously, "So what now?"

She smirked at him, amused that he was looking to her for guidance. Her sister-brother only dropped hir deliberately abrasive personality and acted like this when they were completely alone, at all other times se was the rabidly independent, cruel Desire shown to others. "What are you asking me for? You're not only older than me, you're the villain of the piece. I'm just the gullibly naive maiden in distress. What do you criminal mastermind types usually do to innocent bystanders like Molly who are in the wrong place at the wrong time?"

The cruel sneer of Moriarty quickly slid into place at the reminder. They weren't currently siblings, he had no love for her, she had just been a pawn in his game with Sherlock. However, she could prove to be useful again later, so he didn't want her dead. He quickly punched her in the temple and watched her crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. He straightened his scrubs and quickly looked the room over for anything he might need. He adopted his congenial Jim face, the one that said 'I belong here, but I'm too boring for you to have remembered me' and wandered out into the hospital. "Now? Now is the time for the dastardly villain to escape and the game to continue into the next level. Sleep well sister."


End file.
